Vanilla Bean Killer
Page 8
Sleep had been fleeting, and she’d lost a few pounds, her high cheekbones looking even more dramatically sculpted. This couldn’t go on for much longer or she’d snap.
Since she’d leased Echo’s old house next door to Timothy, she and her boss carpooled to work. She was thankful for the ride sharing, since she at least felt safe going to and from work. Although the feeling of being watched had intensified after she’d moved in. There had been eerie incidents, both at the morgue and at her home that had given her pause for thought as well.
At the morgue, someone had removed a fuse from the fuse box, causing the lights to shut down, after having experienced that, Fiona came home to a very strange thing, indeed. Tim had dropped her off, and when she entered her house, there was a large, grey tabby with amber eyes and a white paw in her living room. She didn’t have a cat, cats scared her. Weirder still, when Tim had seen the cat, he looked as though he had seen a ghost and swore that it was the cat he’d lost in Key West, years ago.
All Fiona wanted was a hot bath and a warm bed, in that order. Food and everything else could wait. She slipped into the tub and savored the warmth of the water easing the tension from her neck and shoulders. She had a glass of wine perched on the side of the tub, but hadn’t taken a sip yet. Hearing a metallic clang coming from the vicinity of her kitchen, she sat bolt-upright in the tub, thankful for the locked door that served as a barrier, albeit a flimsy one, between her and whoever her attacker might be.
Her phone was just out of reach, resting on the countertop of the vanity, and when she looked at it, it rang, seeming to mock her. Scrambling to try and get to it before any would-be attacker heard it and came looking, she slipped in the tub, cracking her head on the side of it, hard enough to split the skin open, causing profound bleeding. Woozy, she staggered to where her robe was hanging on the door, and slipped awkwardly into it.
Picking up the phone, she saw that the caller had shown up as “Unknown.” Frustrated and ill from the searing pain near her temple, she managed to call 911 before slipping into unconsciousness.
***
Chas had a scanner pre-programmed with names, numbers and addresses of those whom he cared about, so that if any information came across a police scanner, a text would alert him immediately. He was more than a bit surprised to see Echo’s former address, from before she married Kel, pop up on his screen. He knew that Fiona McCammish, the mortician’s assistant, lived there now, and wondered what was wrong. The code that he’d gotten indicated an open-line emergency call, which was rare. It typically meant that someone had either dialed the number accidentally, dialed it and then became incapacitated, or dialed it and couldn’t speak due to a captor or intruder.
Deciding to play it safe, because he’d always gotten the utmost cooperation from the coroner and his assistant, he told Missy where he was going, and headed over to Fiona’s. First responders were already on the scene when he arrived, and were treating Fiona for a head wound. He recognized the uniformed officers on the scene, who were talking amongst themselves in the kitchen.
“Hey, Beckett,” one of them greeted Chas. “What are you doing here? I thought you were a big-shot PI now,” he teased.
“I try to keep my hand in things. Fiona’s a family friend,” Chas acknowledged the officer.
“Solinsky isn’t too happy about you keeping your hand in things.”
“He’ll get over it,” the PI replied lightly. “What’s going on here?” he stepped into the kitchen and was immediately transfixed by an odd display on the table.
There was a collection of what looked like transparent leaves, small animal bones and pieces of leather on the table in a circle. In the center of the circle stood one of Fiona’s butcher knives, which had been slammed into the wood, splintering it.
“This is a weird one. Either this lady is crazy, or she’s got ghosts,” the cop gestured to the display.
“Someone is certainly trying to send a message, and no, Fiona McCammish is not crazy. She’s a smart, practical gal who wouldn’t do something like this for attention.”
“Then I guess we’ll be dusting for fingerprints,” the officer shrugged.
“Why on earth would someone do this?” Chas mused, talking mostly to himself.
“She can’t help it,” Timothy Eckels’ voice, from over the PI’s left shoulder, sounded like it came from a grave. “It just happens.”
Copyright Summer Prescott Books 2017
All Rights Reserved
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